


A Love, Realized (sequel to A Love, Unforsaken)

by badskippy



Series: Bagginshield One-Offs [23]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Pain, Realizations, Sequel, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/pseuds/badskippy
Summary: Thorin may or may not survive the battle that took his nephews ... but Bilbo comes to a realization that he never believed could be true.But is he too late?





	A Love, Realized (sequel to A Love, Unforsaken)

**Author's Note:**

> You asked for a sequel ... so here it is.

* * *

  

            It was over.

            The battle had ended and the conflict was over. The allied armies had won the day. The Dwarves, Elves, and Men were at peace and collectively licking their wounds. Granted they had each set up their own camps and areas, but these were close to each other; the Men within the walls of Dale, the Elves along the wall itself and the Dwarves in the fields just outside the city. Yet they shared supplies, healers, nurses, each race helping where and when they could, whether if it was for their people or a different race; they were all in this together.

            Even the commanders were working together. Men, Elves, and Dwarves looked to and followed the example of their leaders, who met near daily and together had made it known that the three kingdoms would only be secure and safe if the three races shared common goals of peace and cooperation. No one said _friendship_ , they weren’t pushing it, but peace could be achieved.

            Bard had to stay; there was nowhere else to go. And he had assumed the role of Leader of Men, with many already asking if he'd  reclaim his ancestral title, Lord of Dale, or even be made King. Bard scoffed at the suggestion of royalty, but the idea had taken hold of many of his people and would most likely not die anytime soon, if at all.

            Thranduil, as cold and indifferent as he was, still stayed; he had said he was leaving, that he was returning to the woods, that he’d seen enough death and destruction in these cursed lands. But stay he did for those that could not return on their own and he free met with the Men and Dwarves, he worked well with them, to the surprise of many, including his son.

            Dain, like Thranduil (but don’t say that to Dain), wanted to return to his hills and put it behind them. But like Bard, he had little choice in staying. Not just for those Dwarves injured and could therefore not return home anytime soon, but because Erebor was barely livable, let alone secure or safe. Besides, the true leader of the Ereboreans was in no position to do much of anything, let alone lead their people.

            Thorin was not expected to live.

            From the high point of Ravenhill, Thorin was brought down as quickly as possible. When Gandalf had arrived, he came upon most of the company surrounding Thorin in vigil, while Bilbo wept bitterly; they believed Thorin dead. But Gandalf knew that life was still there, however dim, and he called upon a great eagle that circled overhead. With a rush of wings and the grip of immense talons, Thorin was carried, while Gandalf rode, by the eagle to the healers below.

            By the time the others had arrived at the healing tents and could rejoin their leader, their king, Thorin was being attended to by Elven and Dwarf healers in such numbers, only the tips of Thorin's boots were seen.   Water was fetched, herbs were crushed, assessments made, bandages readied and then the armor started coming off.

            “It’s like peeling an onion,” an Elven healer said softly.

            “A kingly onion,” a Dwarf replied.

            “I meant no disrespect,” the Elf said. “In fact, I believe the many layers have helped to hold the wounds closed.”

            All those not needed were ‘politely asked’ to leave the tent. In other words, they were told to get out but stay close until needed. Even Bilbo was told to leave and while he nearly puffed up at the idea, a ready retort on his lips, a gentle nod from Gandalf told Bilbo that Thorin would be well looked after under the wizard’s protective eye; Gandalf had no intention of leaving.

            Yet, as Bilbo pulled back the tent flap, he stopped as overheard the Elves begin to talk.

            “Something keeps him close?” one Elf said.

            “Close to what?” a Dwarf asked, confused.

            “Life,” came a second Elf who was clearly of the same mind as the first.

            “Our king is strong,” the first Dwarf said. “He is like stone.”

            “Even stone cracks,” the first Elf said.

            “It is more than just physical strength,” a third Elf said. “There is a will to survive that goes beyond the mortal.”

            “He has a great people to lead,” a second Dwarf said. “He lives for them. Always has.”

            But the Elves shook their head, while the second answered, “This strength goes beyond duty or commitment.”

            “At least,” the first Elf added. “Commitment to _his people_.”

            “What else is there?” a Dwarf demanded.

            “There are many forms of commitment,” Gandalf interjected as he passed a hand over Thorin’s head and the wound on the Dwarf-king’s face seemed to close as if a week or more had passed instantly.  It would still scar but even Bilbo thought it a fine thing, to remind Thorin of all he had endured at Azog's hand.  Besides, it made Thorin look rather rogueish.

            And the Dwarves seemed to understand what the Elves and Gandalf were saying. “That can’t be the reason! He had no queen or consort, no partner or companion!”

            “Didn’t he?” the first Elf said, almost absentmindedly, as he held up something he’d just removed from the breast pocket of Thorin’s tunic, the final piece of clothing the Dwarf wore. “What is this?”

            No one spoke and Gandalf shook his head; he of all them would have known of anything from the journey. “It looks like a folded piece of thin parchment.”

            The Elven healer holding it turned it this way and that, and something caught Bilbo’s eye and he knew. “That’s from Beorn’s!”

            Bilbo rushed over and took the folded piece of parchment, for Gandalf had been right, from the Elf’s hands. _It can’t be!_ Bilbo was amazed. But he’d seen a glimpse of his own handwriting on it. As he slowly opened it, he knew that it was indeed a folded list of things he’d written down. He’d been preoccupied the night before they left the skin-changer's home and on a scrap of parchment he’d jotted down things like, ‘Bag End’, ‘chair’, ‘hearth’, ‘books’, ‘garden’, ‘tomatoes’, ‘bathes’, ‘blue eyes’, just silly little things, not in any particular order.   Thorin had come upon him scribbling.

 

            _‘What is that you are writing?’_

_‘Just a few of my ... favorite things.’_

_Thorin had chuckled. ‘Are you fearful you will forget them?’_

_Bilbo smiled. ‘It’s a trick my mother taught me when I was young. You write the things down you love and ... it helps you not miss them so much.   Or at least ... that’s the idea.’_

_‘Does it work?’_

_Bilbo shrugged. ‘Not really, but it’s nice to remember them.’_

_Thorin nodded but no more comment._

Bilbo had been sure that he’d tossed the parchment away. In fact, when dinner had been announced, Bilbo got up, followed by Thorin, and when they walked past the hearth, Bilbo had crumped up the little scrap and tossed it into the fire. Well, he had tossed _towards_ the fire. He hadn’t heard it hit the floor or bounce off anything. And he would have, wouldn’t he? But here it was, leagues away and kept fold, kept hidden, kept safe in Thorin’s tunic, closest to him without being in contact. Had Thorin just reached out and caught it? Or had it truly missed the hearth and Thorin bent over and retrieved it, and hold onto it?          

            But to what end? Why?

            The answer fell out onto his feet. Tucked in the center of the folds, was a dried flower. Bilbo picked it up and wondered what in the world – but then, in a rush of memories, he remembered! This was the small, white, single Simbelmynë blossom that he’d given to Thorin in jest.

            Well, not truly in jest, that was just what he told Thorin.

            Through all they’d been through since, Mirkwood, imprisonment, their escape, Lake Town, the dragon, the battle, Thorin had carried this tiny flower, this seemingly meaningless bloom, in his breast pocket?

            _Could Thorin have had it before Beorn’s?_ Bilbo’s mind said no; Thorin hadn’t seen or heard of the flower until Bilbo gave it to him. _Did Thorin perhaps pick another one on the way to Mirkwood?_ Again, Bilbo’s mind said no; they’d left the bear-man’s place on horseback and had only stopped a few times to eat before they reached the Elven gate. And in the places where they stopped, Bilbo didn’t recall seeing another growth of the flower anywhere. In fact, nowhere on their journey to the Woodland Realm had he seen the flower again. Only at Beorn’s and even then, only a few stray patches. There were certainly no flowers in the forest, none in the dungeons, or after the barrel ride or in Lake Town, and absolutely nothing grew around the mountain.

            Once more, Bilbo remembered telling the tale of the flower’s creation to Thorin.

 

_Bilbo sighed, still not turning.  “There is a legend that a beautiful lady, upon hearing that her one true love had left her, wept bitterly for him and her love was so great, even in her grief, that small flowers … Simbelmynë … sprang from the ground where her tears fell.  But the lover had not forsaken her and when he saw his lady weeping, he cradled her so and loved her all the more because of her tears.  From then on, he carried a flower everywhere so that his lady’s love would be with him always, ever on his mind, and he from that flower, he drew great strength of spirit and courage so that he would always return to her.”_

_Thorin stood still, marveling a little at the Bilbo.  “That is a beautiful story,” Thorin said._

 

            Bilbo racked his brain. Why? What purpose? It made no – _oh, but wait, it did make a certain sense._ Bilbo laughed to himself but it was not from humor; he, Bilbo Baggins, a most sensible and levelheaded Hobbit, was a fool. A blind, idiot.

            Was it possible, even conceivable that Thorin, like the warrior lover in the story, kept the flower close for strength and courage because it came from the one _Thorin_ ... that he ... he _loved_... and that love was ... was ... was _Bilbo_?

            Bilbo had continuously told himself that he alone felt anything. That he alone held affection between the two of them. That he alone was foolish for even daydreaming of warm morning embraces and shared afternoon walks and evenings by the fire hearth and nights filled with whispered endearments. How in the world could someone like Thorin, a Dwarf, a warrior, a king, a being of the world, find anything more than passing friendship with a Hobbit of the Shire?

            Bilbo was such a fool.

            And he’d wasted their time. Would Thorin have fallen so hard to the dragon-sickness if he’d been told of Bilbo’s affections? Would it have been enough to keep the king from rush off to battle a mad Orc bent on his death? Would Bilbo’s love have been enough to have tipped the scale and perhaps kept Thorin from being so rash and obstinate with the Men of Dale and Elves of Mirkwood? Bilbo couldn’t say at this point. No one could. But it was rather bitter to think all might have been quite different had Bilbo just been bold enough to be honest.

            Bilbo breathed a deep breath and decided that enough time had been wasted. No more. He folded the parchment back up, tucking the tiny, dried blossom back in between the folds and reentered the tent.

            The healers were done now and Thorin lay on the bed, devoid of garments on his upper body, but wrapped tightly in bandages; his chest, his shoulder, both forearms, his head. The cut on his face had a sheen to it; a salve had been applied. Thorin’s beautiful hair had been pulled back. The Dwarf-king looked like he was sleeping.

            “If he makes it through the night,” Gandalf said from a corner Bilbo had not noticed the wizard sitting in. “He will recover.”

            “That’s it?” Bilbo said, giving his friend a hard look. “That’s the best you give him.”

            “There is nothing more to be done. Either he will have the strength to recover or he will succumb. We have done all we can do.”

            “Not all,” Bilbo said as he walked over and tucked the folded parchment into the folds of Thorin’s bandages; right over his heart. He willed all his own strength to the Dwarf – _his Dwarf_ – before him.

            Gandalf did not say a word, he made no comment on the parchment and, instead, stood up and made to leave. “There are others that need my attention.”

            “Go,” Bilbo said, taking the chair next to Thorin. “I will stay with him.” Bilbo reached out a hand and placed it over the spot where the protected flower lay.

            “Of that, I have no doubt.” Gandalf gave Bilbo one of the damned, knowing smiles, which simply infuriated Bilbo to no end, but the wizard said nothing else and left.

            Sometime later, as Bilbo lay sleeping, his head resting on Thorin’s arm, his hand still on Thorin’s chest, Bilbo did not wake or stir when Thorin’s other arm rose up and Thorin placed a hand over Bilbo’s, pinning it over the flower.

 

 

 


End file.
